Thursday, December 4, 2008

As of Monday, there is a new hand soap in the bathroom at work: Softsoap Black Raspberry and Vanilla. Hardly. It smells like cheap perfume on a decaying corpse. It wouldn’t be that big of a deal except the smell does not wash off. Damn you, Softsoap, clean my hands, do not scent them for hours and hours, especially with the fragrance of rot. Every time I brush back my hair or scratch my nose, I am accosted with perfumed death.

Also, it makes my hands cold as ice, numb to the wrist. What is it, mentholated? It is twenty-nine degrees outside and I’m washing my hands in liquid nitrogen. Christ Jesus, I can smell my frozen hands from the keyboard as I type. Kudos to the development team who came up with a product that turns my hands into a morgue. Next trip to the bathroom, I’m considering just rinsing my hands really well. Better yet, I will not drink anything all day long.

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But then what would I complain about? Besides, I did that once. I threw out an offensive plug-in air freshener from the women's bathroom. It was back the next day when someone crazier than me dug it out of the trash can. When I chunked it into a different trash can, there was an office-wide email demanding its return or monetary reimbursement.

About Me

Quattro Stelle is Italian for Four Stars, in celebration of Italy winning the World Cup for the fourth time: one of the greatest moments in my life. Better than the births of my children? Of course; childbirth hurts. I own neither a cellphone nor an iPod. Consequently, I think too much.